Free Heartsick by Caitlin Sinead Page A

Dakota’s best songs is about her sad experience having an abortion when she was a teenager. She has since become a pretty prominent pro-life activist. Despite my feminist upbringing, I can still have a rather healthy girl crush on her because one, I’ve never experienced that, and two, she thinks high schoolers should learn about condoms.
    Even though she’s pro-life, I don’t think that means she enjoys being called a murderer who deserves Hell. Or, I’m sorry, more than Hell because apparently Hell isn’t enough. As Jared continues booming about evil women, Dakota crosses her arms and nods to the large drummer. He approaches Jared.
    Jared sees the impending drummer and his speech scrambles. “God knows your true soul! He has already begun marking those who are evil! Clear your heart. Renounce the devil. Your wickedness will flow through your eyes—” He doesn’t get to finish because the drummer has taken the mic from him.
    “Thanks for...um...that,” he says, passing the mic to Dakota and heading off stage with a squirmy Jared.
    Conrad’s face emerges from his jeaned knees and folded arms. He shakes his head.
    “What was that?” I ask.
    “Ever since he couldn’t get people to rally behind his anti-gay stuff, Jared has been trying to organize a pro-life coalition within the interfaith council. But we aren’t pro-life. I mean, we aren’t pro-choice either.” Conrad swallows. “We have different members with different views on abortion and that’s fine, but he just keeps pushing it. And, well, some of his views have even offended a lot of the other pro-lifers.”
    “Well, yeah,” I say, tilting my head. “I’m sure most people have a healthy appreciation for Jared’s special brand of nut baggery.”
    “You’d be surprised at how many people take him seriously.” There is some extra moisture in Conrad’s eyes. He says it slow and soft.
    I stare at the intertwining blades of grass before me as I rub my hand in a circular motion along Conrad’s back. I cheer him up by downloading a Zippo app and waving my smart phone slowly back and forth to a mellow song. I do it as a joke, but, lame as it is, it sort of feels nice. Then the air gets colder and I stop with the hijinks. I put my hands into my warm pockets and curl into my jacket.

Chapter Nine
    It takes the reporter almost a week to get whoever her source was at the hospital to speak, even on the condition of anonymity. But once she does, the story appears with those unidentified flying quotes: “Yes, Mandy Malone had deep cuts on her arm. They were too deep to heal in a day, at least in my experience.” Yet the picture the reporter snapped the next day showed an arm that looked like it hadn’t so much as had a rug burn in years. The story explodes across the front pages of the
Allan Crier
because, well, have I mentioned not much happens in Allan?
    Soon people are tweeting it and posting it on Facebook and Tumblr, which makes it a not-so-fun Saturday morning in the Mandy-Quinn household.
    It’s hard to believe it was just a week ago that I woke up to her screeches about her purple eyes. She’s been pretty calm about the whole purple eye/mysterious healing thing since then, so I’m startled by her response to her sudden fame.
    “What does that bitch think she’s doing?” Mandy asks. She shakes her phone as I put some Pop-Tarts in the toaster.
    The headline “Poe University Senior Miraculously Heals” shifts back and forth.
    Yeah. Miracle Mandy.
    I gently take her phone from her and set it on the table. I pull her into a hug. “It’s okay, it’s just one stupid article,” I say. “Who reads the
Allan Crier
anyway?”
    She nods, brushing her curls against my cheek as she does. “Well, everyone apparently, when it’s about how I’m a freak.” Her voice sounds like it’s lined with hot tears. But then it shifts. She says it stiff, almost under her breath: “Why did you make me go to the hospital anyway? Just because that jerk